Mandaree cowboy meets the Lady In White, the North Sea and a Scottish tavern

Enjoy this work of fiction based on true events for the holidays, Happy Halloween!

Editors note: We don’t do this often, but in recognition of our penchant for a good ghost story and Halloween just around the corner, we made space for Todd Hall to share this fictionalized piece based on a true event that occurred in Scotland.

Once upon a time, I found myself at the Greyfriars Inn and Tavern in St. Andrews, Scotland.  I was throwing down a couple of frosty ones, while enjoying some great fish and chips, caught straight out of the North Sea.  I was visiting with the locals and really enjoying the company.

I stuck out in a crowd, as I sat in my boots and cowboy hat, enjoying the evening.  I had to keep explaining, “No, I am not from Texas, I am from the Northern Great Plains, where the deer, buffalo, and antelope play, to this day.” Heck, I bet I could have told those folks I still lived in a tipi, I think those foreign folks would have believed me. I did not tell them specifically where I am from because it is not my way. 

I didn’t know very much about the St. Andrews culture, other than it has a great university and what my friend, Dean Meyer once told me. He said, “Hey! You better play a round of golf while you’re there!” He explained, St. Andrews is credited as the birthplace of the modern game of golf. “Yippee”, I sarcastically thought. I played a couple of times. I suck at golf. 

The evening grew late. I sat, visiting with pride and bravado. I am proud to be an American. I am proud to be an American Indian. I am proud to be a cowboy. I am proud to be from the Badlands of North Dakota, and raised west of the Missouri River.  I was proud to be in Scotland, all the way from the Fort Berthold Indian Reservation and my ranch, in Mandaree, N.D.

As I sat there visiting, I found out another thing about St. Andrews. Besides being the birthplace of golf, it is haunted; they say. 

While I sat there, I began to wonder, just how haunted is it? Are we talking “Amityville Horror,” “The Exorcist,” or “Texas Chainsaw Massacre,” haunted? Or does it just have some good old-fashioned ghosts, whom have withstood the test of time? 

My question would soon be answered as I peered through the dim lighting and noticed one of them little shelf areas. The kind like one of those you see at a tourist trap, down in the Black Hills. It was full of pamphlets, offering tours, trips, and ideas on what to do around there in case a person wants to seek adventure or learn something instead of just sitting around, getting pie-eyed and fattened up on fish in a little tavern.

I took the bait, much like a shark strikes at chum. I walked over and grabbed the first pamphlet I saw. That’s when I read about her, the beautiful “Lady in White.”

The story describes an entity that is seen by a “lucky” few. It roams the very streets where I was.  She was explained in detail as an apparition that appears to be a lady in a white gown. 

It was late and I’d been drinking. While I sat in silence I got to thinking, maybe, I’ll go and see for myself.  I’ll do it for free, not paying a dime, I’ll go see this ghost on my own time.  I said, in a tone as if it was a Waylon Jennings sing-along. We have something similar but different back home. 

I walked outside, the air was cool, crisp, and very damp. It was dark, except for some old-style street lighting like you see in some old Hitchcock horror movie, dark and foggy as can be. I started down the empty street, strutting like the Rooster in Alice In Chains. 

As I walked along, I passed a marquee promoting a movie. It was about Chris Kyle who was a cowboy and a SEAL, wild and wooly. That only added to the cock in my walk. 

Pretending to be Conan the Barbarian walking the ancient streets, that was me. “Because I am a cowboy too, ‘ennit, dad’”.  Just like “The Legend”, I was “Born to be Bad” (George Thorogood). 

I was high, wide and handsome as I strolled along, humming Waylon Jennings, “I’ve Always Been Crazy,” occasionally singing a song. As you can imagine, I must have been a sight to see. As a “Legend” in my own mind; I was one of the greats walking down that street with glee. In reality, I was just me, full of fish, getting older and fatter, high blood pressure and limping with a bum left knee. 

In the fog and shadowy splendor, I began to wonder, would she be pretty or would she be a hag?  Will her beauty be enchanting, or will it be doomed to fit, more proper, a paper bag? Would she be skinny or would she be stout? I was curious, to find all of this out. 

Towards the end of the long corridor street, and close to the old castle, things took a sudden turn for the dark and sinister. Maybe you can relate to how I felt: You could feel it, in your blood, it suddenly turns cold. There is a sudden chill in the air. Your hair starts standing up on your arms.  Your heart rate increases, your sinuses suddenly open up and you can breathe better, the go-juice starts wandering through your veins; all that stuff a person feels, when you realize you are being watched, maybe even hunted. But from where?  Into the shadows, I began to stare. 

I would have turned and run, except for my wife and son. They were behind me. I was obligated to be tough. To accomplish that task, I howled, “Lady in White! Where art thou? I came all the way from America to see you!” Right there, I wished I could have taken it back. I knew, I had crossed a line.

Out of the blue, I stopped in my tracks and turned a 180. Facing my son and wife I said, “It’s getting late, we better turn back.” My self-awareness made me realize my voice shook, just a little, so I added, “It’s getting cold.” My voice began to crack. 

I followed as they led the way back towards the Inn. We could see all the way down the road. They had shut the marquee to the show-hall off. It suddenly seemed really, really dark. As we journeyed, the night was still. None of us said a word, all I could hear was the crashing of the waves on the rocks below, compliments of the North Sea.

Faint and beautiful, that is the only way to describe it. The moonlight was trying in vain to poke through the night sky. The rhythm of the sea was hypnotic, almost euphoric, creating a purple haze. I kept wandering, as if in a daze.  

I stopped suddenly at one of the stone stairwells which led down to the water. I stood at the top, peering down into it to determine if I could see the sea. It was blacker than the Ace of Spades.  One could not see anything but pure darkness. As I peered down the first three steps, which were the only ones visible, I suddenly decided it would be a good idea and I would show of some kind of bravery, if I walked down and touched the sea. When I told my wife and son of my intent, they thought I was off my rocker, but simply told me to be careful because it might be slick.

I started down the steps. I could see fine for the first three, but as I descended down past number four, it was as if someone had shut off every source of light in the world. I was a long, long way from my sweet home, Mandaree. 

As I walked down, I held what felt like a stair handle so I wouldn’t slip. It seemed like I was walking in a half moon pattern as I went down. I couldn’t see anything, hear anything, except for the lapping of the waves on the rock below.

I was about halfway down the column when I heard it. Something at the bottom suddenly sniffed the air. It was subtle, yet still loud enough to hear. It did not sound like something or someone was trying to mitigate a runny nose, but the kind of sniff you hear when a predator is hunting, sizing up what it can’t see.

I stopped dead in my tracks and started to back out slowly. I heard the sniff again, this time, however, it was softer, more subtle. In response, I sniffed the air so hard I snorted, like a bull ready to fight. A few steps to go and I would be safe, back in the light. In an act of defiance to whatever it was towards the bottom of the stairs, I spit.

It was either that or fill my pants with what rhymes with spit. 

In that moment, time stopped, sound ended.

For a second, I thought I was dead.

But I could feel my heart beating like a thundering drum. Suddenly, all I wanted to do as I backed up the stairs was go to bed. Courageously terrified, I crept back towards the light, silent, careful, and ready to fight. 

Part of me was begging whatever it was to stay where it was. The other part of me, the part made of lightning and stone, said, “Want some, come get some, you bastard. Hopefully, you are made out of nothing more than blood and bone.”

Whatever it was, it must have smelled the silver bullets on my breath. The tavern in Scotland had Coors Light on tap, saving me, I surmised, from what could have been an uncool death. “Enter Sandman” by Metallica was ringing in my head. At least it wasn’t “Go Rest High” by Vince Gill, because if it was, that would be a sign. 

I stood at the top of the stairs shaking like a leaf, staring down into the blackness, almost in total disbelief. I did not realize I was sweating. I was breathing hard, so hard the nighttime air made steam pour out of me like an old-time machine. I stood in a defensive-fighting stance. My heart was pumping so hard I could feel the blood pulsing in my ears. Adrenaline ran like lightning through my veins. I wondered if I was in shock. 

I am not sure how long I stood and stared but it was my wife that broke the silence in the air when she said, “What took so long? I was about to holler down because you got so quiet.” 

I asked, “How long was I down there”? 

She said, “About a minute. Are you alright? You sweat so hard your blood must boil, what concerns you on Scottish soil?”

She told me I looked pale, as I stood there, face glistening in the faint moonlight. 

I confessed, “It was very scary down there, very dark. There was a lot of moss or something on the steps, very slick, I was afraid to move.”  I left out the rest, so not to scare. I did not want to let them know something was amiss.

Regardless, my very next words were, “Let’s head back to the inn, I gotta have me a piss.” I did not have to pee because I was scared, it was the beer, so we really hauled butt. When I drink Coors Light, I swear my bladder turns the size of a peanut. 

I woke up the next morning and found myself staring out the second-story window out into the street. I sat and watched as the town began to stir, thinking of the night before, meditating, and asking, was it real or imagined?

Funny thing was, I did not see jack-shit, but something was there. You could feel the presence. What was it?

I also thought about my own actions, walking the streets and making boasts of disrespect when I was actually so proud to be actually walking those streets. I know, it doesn’t make sense. It’s not supposed to. I’m backward in my ways sometimes. I’ll even tell a ghost story, using children’s rhymes.

If any of my Viking ancestors ever walked those streets before me, I contemplated they were probably like all my folks back home. I would be the runt of them all, yet like them, I would live life until I fell. I wondered who was the first Hidatsa or Hunkpapa to ever walk the streets of St. Andrews, for surely it wasn’t me.

Those Scottish folks really got a kick out of the fact when I told them I was named after a horse. Probably thought I made it up. Kinda made me chuckle as I decided to face the day, just like the song by Great White.    

Someone mentioned at breakfast that it is a crime over there to be out past curfew. For a second, I thought I was busted. Then, I had to ask, “That is an actual law around here?” I honestly did not know that the night before.  I thought to myself and exclaimed aloud, “Sounds kind of oppressive.”   It was my duty as a United States citizen to say that. However, I never gave up on the fact, that in reality, somebody would basically have to force me at gunpoint to go outside in this town after dark, after last night. 

The local folk seemed annoyed to hear me say that nonetheless. After all, I was just a gentleman from Texas or someplace, claims to be named after a horse, claims to be a wild American Indian like they see in books, but looks like one of those wild American Cowboy characters they see on TV.

I am glad they didn’t call me either though, my head would have gotten too big for my own hat.  They only smiled back, but their little noses were twitching with irritation; the result of my obviously annoying words. I decided to pull my hat down and lay low for the rest of the day. 

Later on, we went out and ate more North Sea fresh fish. After that we decided to walk around and check out the town a little in the daylight. I felt like a character in the music video “We Can Dance,” by Men Without Hats as I walked around the square in St. Andrews.

There was some type of carnival in town and it seemed like a festive occasion. It was pleasantly cool outside. There was lots of hustle and bustle out on the streets and I was really enjoying the early afternoon. That is when I saw her, standing, staring, smiling at me, summoning, inviting me to speak in conversation, right there in the broad daylight in the middle of that thriving town square. Even though I was wandering around, she stood like a statue in my path. 

Her blue eyes were stunning and full of life. She was an elegant young lady, her hair was completely white. She wore a gray goose-down jacket, with white rabbit fur around the hooded collar. She had light-colored blue jeans. If I didn’t know better, I would say they were stone-washed.  

For she began talking to me as if I was a familiar face. She seemed to be saying hello but I couldn’t tell for sure because she talked with a very thick accent of some kind, I am not totally sure what she said was even English, even though I picked up a word here and there that sounded American. I figured it was some kind of Celtic language, I did not see her shoes so I started to look down to see what she wore on her feet as she spoke. She had other plans, however, for this young bloke. 

The moment my eyes departed hers and I began to look down, she let out a big belch, so loud it could of echoed throughout the whole town. When I looked back up the next instant, what did I see?  Man, it was not an elegant, pretty lady looking back at me. Those stunning blue eyes were now completely black. Her whole throat was swelled to the point it resembled that of a bullfrog.  Her mouth quadrupled in size, and her nostrils were quite wide. In my own body, I felt something stir inside. 

It was not how she looked but what she told, that to this very day makes my blood run ice-cold.  In a guttural voice, too deep for her to be natural, and straight out of a horror movie, she goes, “How are things in Dakota?” Before I could blink and ask myself, “Did that shit just happen?” I knew in my heart, that last night, talking to the wind, I didn’t just bite off more than I could chew, but with my show of disrespect, I committed an act that my Tribal elders would not agree with. “I done screwed up.” And it chilled my soul. 

If you remember, I described myself walking around as if I was a Brock-Lesnar-walking-to-the-ring-wannabe and doing quite well, according to me. But, at that moment standing there, I was looking and feeling like the little fat kid “Hot Pie” on Game of Thrones. I asked for forgiveness, for I know better than to disrespect the old ways here, there, or anywhere. I asked with honesty and sincerity all the way down to my very bones. 

Now, then and there I stood face to face with her gruesome grace.  I backed away and said I wished to be left alone. I was actually praying, “I hope it don’t know my name.”  I already knew, however, that ship had sailed. It was too late for me to bail. She knows the land where I like to lay my head.

For even though, when people ask me, “Where are you from, where do I call home?” I always say I’m nomadic, and quote, “Wherever I May Roam” from Metallica. In reality, I was suddenly lonesome for Sweet Dakota, my home sweet home. 

I begged her pardon for me to leave, for I had somewhere to be, in a little bit. As I departed, I backed away facing her, then turned away for a couple of steps. I turned to look back and saw she was gone.  Into thin air it seemed.  I didn’t care, “Good!” I thought for I had another concern. I was now hunting for a place to sit. 

I sat thinking, “She thinks she scared me; she wishes!” For it wasn’t her that made me go, it was what I ate, all those damn fishes!!!!  That’s my story and I am sticking to it. I was proud of myself.  I didn’t tuck tail and run like some pup-puss-dud.  I was scared, you bet, but at least I held my mud. Ever the competitor, I decided to call it a draw, from right there, on my throne. I gloated; bad guts, proud, and Bad to the Bone.